


Battle Of The Bands

by RedBubbles



Series: Rival Bands [1]
Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Alcohol, Flirting, Gen, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 23:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11262843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBubbles/pseuds/RedBubbles
Summary: The aftermath of a sexual-tension charged concert, fuelled by alcohol and a mutual competitiveness to out-do the other.





	Battle Of The Bands

**Author's Note:**

> [Check out my imagines blog on Tumblr (2d-imagines)](https://2d-imagines.tumblr.com)

You smirk across the bar, spotting the very man you were both avoiding and seeking out. He hasn’t noticed you, he’s too intent on the girl beside him who’s hanging off his every word, her eyes half lidded, her lips painted red, her cleavage almost entirely on show.

It’s the night after a massive gig, a battle of the bands type deal where there was no actual battle asides from those formed unofficially by those invited to participate; in reality it was an excuse for music executives to get all the biggest bands in the world together and profit big money from it.

And judging by the triumphant grins on the faces of your bandmates, and the knowledge that as the second tick by, hundreds of pounds are trickling into your already overstuffed bank account, you’d guess that you won the battle. As if you weren’t going to.

Finally, the girl is peeled away by her friends, but you see her toss a little piece of paper, no doubt with her number on it, towards 2D.

It’s time to make your move.

You slip out of your seat and weave through the crowd, becoming just another one of the bodies moving through the limbo of the club.  
Just as he puts his hand out to pick up the slip of paper, you emerge from the crowd and slam your hand down over it. He barely reacts, just lets his gaze travel up your arm, along your shoulder, to your face. You smirk at him, lifting yourself into the stool beside him.

“Mind if I sit?”

He shrugs, and takes a sip of the brightly coloured cocktail in his hands.  
You lean your head on your hand, the devilish smirk not leaving your face. He watches you, daring you to break the silence. Finally, you lick your lips and roll your shoulders back.  
“Fancy running into you here,” you say, “what a coincidence,”

He sips his drink again.

“You were stalking me,” he says. You roll your eyes at him, and then lift your hand, peering at the number written on the paper. It’s sloppy scrawl, barely legible. The corner of your mouth curves up a little, and you look back at 2D.  
“Was she pretty?” you ask, cocking your head to the side.  
“You know she was,”

You shrug and run your hand through your slightly damp hair, still tacky with hair gel.  
“I didn’t see much. I was quite a distance away,”

He takes another sip of his drink, eyes not leaving yours. He’d met his fair share of shy lovers, confident lovers, bubbly lovers, boring lovers, smart lovers, ditzy lovers, lovers that came on too strong, and lovers that didn’t come on at all, and as different as they all were from each other, they were all readable.

Until you. With you, he feels like a blind man trying to read the Magna Carta.

You tap the bar in a rhythm, watching him.

“Well done tonight,” you say slyly, “you were cute,”  
2D buffers a little.  
“What the hell d’you mean cute?”  
You shrug, that goddamn smirk still on your face. God, how much he wishes he could wipe it off.

“It was sort of like watching a kid’s performance, you know? Lots of jumping around, colour, smoke. It was very sweet,”  
“Well, at least we were visible,” he says, pretending to be blasé when in reality, he’s smarting, “you were so dark and well…in the dark, I could barely see what was going on, much less hear,” it’s his turn to smirk as he looks at you, “I think your lead singer might need a bit of vocal coaching,”

Ah, there it is. That cutting, silver tongue that you’ve only ever seen the tip of. You’re finally drawing it out of him.

You simply shift to the side, changing to a position that could most definitely be called seductive. His eyes flicker down your leather clad body; every curve deliciously clung to.  
“I disagree,” you say, dropping your tone to match your body language, “I think you’d find I can sing very prettily…with the right stimulus,”

You can tell he’s watching your lips, and you bite them slightly, suggestively, waiting for him to make the first move.

He just stares at you, his glare somewhat resentful, so you reach out with a soft sigh, and take his drink, down what little of the lurid pink liquid is left. You set it down, smacking your lips and pouting, and then give him a smile that’s somewhat predatory.  
“Fancy going elsewhere?”

\--------------

The motel he takes you back to is far from plush. It’s the bare minimum for comfort, but fantastic for privacy. At your own hotel, you’d had to walk in wearing sunglasses and a baggy hoodie with the hood pulled up to avoid being recognised; here, you had swanned in, attached to 2D’s arm, in full performance garb, and no one had seemed to even glance your way.

In a way, it’s perfect.

You sit down on the bed, watching him as he mixes whiskey and vodka in a glass, swirling it around. You raise an eyebrow.

“Vodka and whiskey makes you frisky,” you catch sight of the whiskey bottle and whistle, “that’s expensive stuff,”

He turns around and slumps into the seat opposite you, legs spread, sitting less than 3 feet from you. The look he fixes you with isn’t resentful, or lustful, or even bored. More like he’s waiting, amused by the proceedings, which is a nice step up from his more than frosty attitude in the club.

Perhaps it had been the small flirtatious glances you had kept shooting him in the taxi, or the feather light dance of your fingertips across his leg as he sat beside you.

The room is so small and cramped. If the two of you were to lean forward, you could easily kiss. But that isn’t what you’re thinking about. For the most part.

“S’what you get when you’re successful,” he says, sipping the drink. You’re impressed by his ability to keep a straight face. Drinking that, even for fun, would make you grimace.  
You cross one leg over the other as you light up a cigarette, blowing the smoke into his face and smirking.

“At least we didn’t have to buy our way to success,” you say, taking a drag, “you’re implying that we aren’t successful?”

2D gives you an evil glare, and you smile at him with false sweetness. He sets the glass down and leans forward, plucking the cigarette from your hand, taking a drag for himself.  
“At least people thirst after our lead singer,” he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, the corner of your lip curling slightly.

“I can think of at least one person who thirsts after me,” you say, trailing your hand across his chest before snatching the cigarette back swiftly. His gaze follows your hand and then returns to your eyes.  
“I’ll give you £15 if you can point them out to me, and then prove it,”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Only £15? I thought you were successful,” you purr, “that’s awfully cheap,”

You take a coy drag of the cigarette, watching the disgruntled expression on his face.

“You sound like you’re renting yourself out,” he says, and then his expression changes to one of sly amusement, “maybe that’s how you found your success,”  
The first stirrings of annoyance bloom in your chest, coupled with competitiveness. He’s playing you, and it’s working.

“Or maybe it was by raw talent,” you respond, shifting closer so you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning into him, “all I know is, our band is together by choice,”  
You’ve struck a nerve there. His gaze darkens, and he plucks the cigarette from your fingers, taking a slow drag and then blowing it into your face, making you jerk away.  
“£150,” he replies, “show me someone who would actually fuck you, and it’s yours,”

You take the cigarette from him, stubbing it out on the armrest of his chair, and then move to straddle him, settling your knees either side of him. His eyes don’t leave yours, but his hands automatically come up to grip your hips.  
“You’d better get your wallet out then,” you whisper, and then grab his face roughly, smashing your lips against his.

His tongue isn’t just sharp in conversation. You can practically feel the energy and tension radiating off him, and his kiss only hints at the tip of the iceberg. The moment your lips collide, he rises up, gripping your hips and pushing back against you fiercely. The kiss is more of a battle than a sexual encounter, and your hands are going everywhere; in his hair, down his legs, up his shirt, caressing his jaw.

He’s hardly leaving you alone. No part of your body is safe from his searching, gripping, groping hands. They trail up and down your thighs, and then back up, over your hips, pulling you forward, making you roll your hips against his.

He moans softly, and then the hand in your hair is pulling you back roughly, and you whine as you break the kiss, letting him tear you away. You take a second to compose yourself, and then smirk at him. He’s panting softly, the disgruntled expression on his face vanished. His grip on your hair slackens, and his hand trails down your shoulder, toying with the hem of your shirt, as though contemplating whether or not to tear it off you. You trail your hands up his stomach and over his chest, rolling your hips against him slowly and teasingly, waiting for him to move.  
It works. His hand stills on the fabric and he sits up, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. For a moment, you wonder if he’s becoming sentimental, but then you feel the cool brush of his lips over your jugular, and his teeth scrape along your trapezius. One of your hands grips his shoulder, the other tangles in his hair as he draws gasps and moans from you with tiny bitemarks and rough hickeys.

His other hand is sneaking up your thigh and over your hip, feeling around for the zip at the back of your shirt, pressed against the base of your spine.

You lean back, pushing him back into the chair. His hand has found purchase in your hair, and the other trails over your lower back, making you arch slightly.

You’re flattered to see you’ve flustered him slightly, judging by the slightly feral look in his eye and the flush across his cheeks, but that could just be the alcohol. Slowly, teasingly, you stretch your arms out, showing off the form fitted leather shirt to its full extent before reaching behind you, feeling for the zip. His eyes light up, his gaze falling from your face to your body as you slowly pull the zip down, allowing the shirt to loosen around your shoulders, then your chest. Slowly, you grip the hem of it and pull it up, exposing your skin to him inch by tantalisingly slow inch. His fingers drift from your hips upwards, following the shirt and touching your now bare skin with a soft reverence that you hadn’t foreseen.

His fingertips are pleasantly calloused from so many years of playing the keyboard and guitar, and he sits up again, pressing his lips to yours. What started out as a gentle, somewhat even playful, kiss dissolves quickly into another rough battle, and he seizes the hem of your shirt and tugs at it hard, pulling it off you completely and tossing it some unseen corner. With your hands now free and your torso bare, you wrap your arms around 2D’s neck and kiss him with even more ferocity, pressing your chest against his.

His response surprises you, but in no way are you complaining about the unexpectedness of it. His hands smooth over your waist and downwards, hooking under your thighs. For a moment, he holds you just slightly out of his lap, and then in one swift movement, he throws you backwards onto the bed. You bounce slightly, and the mattress creaks and groans, and you lie amongst the twisted sheets catching your breath, barely able to take a few seconds of break before 2D is climbing on top of you, pulling your hips back against his. You smirk up at him, wrapping your legs around his waist and grinding against him, trying to tease him as much as possible.

His denim jacket comes off, and then his t-shirt is abandoned to the floor. As his hands work to remove his belt, you adjust your position, twisted slightly onto your side, one hand above your head, the other across your chest. You bite your lip and flutter your eyelashes up at him; the picture of innocence.

“I suppose this is a side of you many people have seen, isn’t it?” you ask in a breathy tone. His eyes flicker from your body to your face, and then narrow slightly.  
“What are you implying?”  
You giggle, and reach out, trailing your fingertips in a feather light touch down the slight indents of his ribs, down his stomach, over the jut of his hipbone.  
“I’m not implying anything,” you reply, “and if you think I am, perhaps you’re paranoid,”

He purses his lips a little, and then un-loops his belt, pulling it taut in his hands. For one spine tingling second, you think he’s going to wrap it around your wrists, or your throat, and you gulp in anticipation. But instead, he simply lets it slither out of his hands and onto the floor, and leans forward, beginning to unbutton your pants with deliberate slowness.  
“I wonder how many people have had you in this exact position,” he says. The flame of arousal in your belly sparks even brighter. He’s playing you at your own game, and you love it. You grin, letting him ease your pants down.

“I could ask you the same thing, lover,” you whisper, and he unhooks your legs from his waist, both of you taking only a few seconds to strip away what little clothing remains. The foil wrapper of a condom shines between his fingers, snatched from his back pocket as he tosses his jeans away. You raise an eyebrow.  
“You were prepared?”  
“Not for you,” he replies, tearing the foil slowly, “I was hoping for someone a little more…inspiring,“

His skin is almost burning to the touch, and you trail your fingertips over the barest ridges of muscle under his skin. His lips are on yours in seconds, and he trails burning kisses down your jaw and neck. One hand grips the bedsheets, the other tangles in his hair, pressing his face into your collar, his moans muffled against your skin as he pushes into you.

“You’re awfully cocky tonight,” you gasp as he sets his pace, slow and brutally teasing, designed to frustrate you and make you beg. You can tell his intentions by the glint in his eye, and the lazy, upward curl of his lip. Two can play at that game. You wrap your legs around his hips, arch your back, pressing yourself against him, and run your fingernails down his spine tantalisingly.  
He drops down so he’s leaning on his forearms, chest pressed against yours, his lips on your neck. You dig your nails into his shoulders a little as his thrusts build up in speed, and you bite your lip, not wanting to give in and moan so easily. The better you can make him fuck, the sweeter that £150 will be at the end.

He presses a little line of kisses along your collar bone, and ends it with a tiny nip, making you gasp. Your nails dig into his skin a little deeper as he thrusts harder. The bed springs creak louder, and you can’t help but moan along with them, knowing that the people in the room either side of and below you will be complaining in the morning.

He can’t seem to decide where he wants to put his hands. They slide up and down your sides, then settle on your hips, pulling you against him as his thrusts descend into borderline animalistic, then find purchase in your hair, then slip down to cup your cheeks as he kisses you roughly. You grip his wrists as he kisses you, arching up to meet his thrusts, moaning against his lips.  
In one swift movement, barely breaking his rhythm, he suddenly pulls out of the kiss and grabs both your hands. A spark of excitement bolts down your spine, and he pulls your arms up, effectively pinning you against the bed with his body and hands.

“Well aren’t you full of surprises,” you murmur, descending into a gasp as he thrusts a little harder. With your entire body now completely on show, and your hands out of action, he finds it much easier to layer your neck and collarbones with bites and hickeys, and even strays down onto the unmarked expanse of your chest.

“F-fucking hell, D,” you moan, “you don’t half feel good when you get going,”  
He responds to your remark with a particularly hard bite on your collarbone, making you cry out.  
“You think this is me when I’m going?” he asks, raising his head, “I’m barely trying,”

As much as you want to deny him, he could very well be right. While you’re panting and arching and gasping for him, he’s barely broken a sweat, yet his thrusts stay sharp and fast and almost painfully good.

You narrow your eyes at him, wanting to get him going. You want to unwind and unravel him, just as he’s doing to you.

“If only you sang as good as you fuck,”

It works. It fucking works. He sinks his teeth into your collar bone. One of his hands is wrapped around your wrists, easily pinning them above your head, and the other grips your hip with enough pressure to leave marks. He holds you still as he thrusts into you, still getting faster with every one.

“If only it were as easy to make money as it is to get you into bed,” he says, and then goes completely stationary for one teasing moment, “oh wait, for me, it is,”  
You open your mouth to yell at him, but all that comes is a loud, drawn out moan as he slams back into you. You throw your head back, hands straining against his grip, back arching, toes curling, as the flames of arousal throughout your body threaten to burn you alive.

With your head thrown back and your eyes squeezed shut, you can’t see his reaction, but judging by the moans and grunts that vibrate along the abused skin of your neck, he’s most definitely in his element.

You’ve definitely made him come undone.

Finally, as you feel his thrusts beginning to become less controlled, and more desperate, he releases your hands so he can grip your hips with both hands. You can feel every flex and twitch of the knotted muscles down his back, and your hands find purchase on his constantly shifting shoulder blades, digging your nails in as he thrusts faster, his movement starting to become discordant and sloppy. You bite your lip, muffling your moans, and tangle both your hands into his hair, pulling his head down so you can kiss him again, all clacking teeth and biting lips.

You can feel yourself being wound up, tighter and tighter, and as your throw your head back with a loud, drawn out cry of pleasure, 2D bows his head and bites the juncture between your neck and your shoulder hard, slamming into you with a loud, barely muffled groan. His bite lingers for a few seconds as you both gasp for air, chests heaving, hair sticking to sweaty foreheads, and then slowly he draws back, still panting. His forehead drops onto your shoulder as he catches his breath, and you relax into the bed, spreading your arms out either side of you.

The sound of the two of you breathing is the only sound in the darkened room, and after a few minutes, you run your fingers through his damp hair, encouraging him to lift his head to look at you. You smirk at him.

“You owe me £150,” you whisper, and his tired and somewhat soppy expression melts away under a wave of annoyance. He pulls out of you slowly, and then, mercilessly, sits up.  
“Wallet’s in my pocket,” he mutters, slipping off the bed, “and I know how much is in there, so don’t take more than you’re allowed,”

“What, you don’t want to cuddle?” you call after him, and he flips you off, his expression once again dark with annoyance.

You sit up, stretching and cracking your back. The light in the bathroom flickers on, and the door slams shut. You grin and grab your clothes, yanking them on haphazardly. Your leather shirt sticks to your sweaty skin, and you decide that tonight is the last time you ever wear leather when you’re planning on getting laid.

Whipping a piece of paper out of your pocket, you glance back at the bathroom door, which remains closed, and scribble your number onto it. You scoop 2D’s wallet out of his pocket and slip the paper in amongst the notes, and then toss it onto the bed, knowing he’ll rifle through it to check you haven’t taken more than agreed.

Then, as silently as possible, you pull your shoes on, and slip out onto the landing, shutting the door behind you quietly. As you sprint towards the stairs, you find yourself glancing back at the door. It may well have been a one night stand, but there was just as much chance of it being the start of something.

You grin to yourself, knowing that you number is safely tucked into his wallet, and make a dash out of the motel.


End file.
